


"Who Can Save You Now?"

by yangincafes



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Hunger Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 12:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18180383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yangincafes/pseuds/yangincafes
Summary: Lee Felix is the one chosen this year for the Hunger Games: a televised competition in which two teenagers from each of the twelve Districts of Panem are chosen at random to fight to the death.





	1. Chapter 1

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.  
I stretch my fingers for some heat, but find only the vast mattress cover.  
I had had nightmares but I was old enough to crawl into my mother's bed like when I was little.  
Why the nightmares?  
Today was the reaping day.

I lean on one elbow and get up a little; Some light enters the bedroom, so I can see it.  
My mother curled in her bed.  
She looked younger when she slept, exhausted, though not crushed.

I get off the bed and put on my hunting boots; the fine and smooth skin has been  
adapted to my feet. I also put on my pants and a shirt, hid my blond hair in a cap and took the bag I use to store everything I pick up. At the table, under a wooden bowl that serves to protect it from rats, I find a perfect goat cheese wrapped in leaves.  
Something to reassure me during the reaping.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed.  
The reaping isn’t until two.  
May as well sleep in.  
If you can.

My house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow. Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified twentyfour hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the   
woods (packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears...) that used to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to touch. Even so, I always take a momentto listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been loose for years.  
There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.   
As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12.   
Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow. But there’s also food if you know how to find it.  
Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it   
if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife.

Before dying, my father had taught me the art of throwing knives.  
And during all these years now there was nothing that could stop me.  
I practiced every night because of the impotence of thinking how dad had died.  
Alone. In the dark. Asphyxiated and crushed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter.

Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol.  
Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble.  
So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts.  
Do my work quietly in school. Make only   
polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market where I make most of my money.  
Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics.  
Like the reaping, or food short-ages, or the Hunger Games.

My mother was too old to talk to her about more and more disgrases per day.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be   
myself.  
Hyunjin.  
I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge   
overlooking a valley.  
A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes.  
The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile.

 

“Hey, Lix” says Hyunjin.  
My real name is Felix, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thought I’d said only Lix.  
Then when this crazy lynx started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official   
nickname for me. I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game.  
I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt. 

“Look what I shot,” Hyunjin holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh.  
It’s real bakery bread, not the flat,   
dense loaves we make from our grain rations.  
I take it in my hands, pull out the knife , and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

“Mm, still warm,” I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. “What did it cost you?”

“Just a squirrel. Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning,” says Hyunjin. “Even wished me luck.”

“Well, we all feel a little closer today, don’t we?” I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. “I have cheese.” I pull it out.   
His expression brightens at the treat. “Oh,thank you,Lix.We’ll have a real feast.”  
Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent   
as he mimics Lee Minho , the maniacally upbeat boy who arrives once a year to read out the names at the leaping.  
“I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!"  
He plucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us.  
“And may the odds—” He   
tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.  
I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin with my teeth.  
The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue.  
“— be ever in your favor!” I finish with equal verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out of your wits.  
Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything sounds funny in it.   
I watch as Hyunjin pulls out his knife and slices the bread. He could be my brother.  
The best friend one could ever have.

Hyunjin spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries.  
We settle back in a nook in the rocks.  
From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight.  
The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze.  
The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths.  
Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Hyunjin, hunting for tonight’s supper.  
But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o’clock waiting for the names to be called out.

“We could do it, you know,” Hyunjin says quietly.

“What?” I ask. 

“Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it,” says Hyunjin. "We make the best team, you know Lix."

I did not know what to answer,it was... I could not leave my mother here.  
He also did not think he was sure to leave his family and that is why he quickly added that I should forget it.

“What do you want to do?” I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather. 

“Let’s fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight,” he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate. And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children have been spared for another year. But at least two families will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out how they will survive the painful weeks to come.   
We make out well.  
The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds.  
By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries.

I found the patch a few years ago, but Hyunjin had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.   
On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal.   
When they came up with a more efficient system that transported the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over the space.  
Most businesses are closed by this time on reaping day, but the black market’s still fairly busy.  
We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other two for salt.  
Kim Shin Young, the plump-faced olde woman who sells bowls of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin.  
We might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to keep on good terms with her.  
She’s the only one who can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don’t hunt them on purpose, but if you’re attacked and you take out a dog or two, well, meat is meat. “Once it’s in the soup, I’ll call it beef,” Kim Shin Young says with a wink.  
No one in the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.   
When we finish our business at the market, we go to the back door of the mayor’s house to sell half the strawberries, knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford   
our price.

After a good sale we walk toward the Seam in silence.  
The reaping system is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it.  
You become eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve.  
That year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice.  
And so on and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times.   
That’s true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire country of Panem.  
But here’s the catch.  
Say you are poor and starving as we   
were.  
You can opt to add your name more times in exchange for tesserae.  
Each tessera is worth a meager year’s supply of grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your family members as well.  
So, at the age of twelve, I had my name entered four times.  
Once, because I had to, and three   
times for tesserae for grain and oil for myself and my mother.  
In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of eighteen , my name   
will be in the reaping twenty times.  
Hyunjin, who is eighteen like me   
has been either helping or single handedly feeding his family too for seven years, will have his name in forty-two times. 

Hyunjin and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each. 

“See you in the square,” I say. 

"Come elegant" He said with that bright smile on his lips.

"I'll be waiting for you dressed as if it was the fucking day of my wedding." I also scoffed finally.

At home, I find my mother ready to go.   
A tub of warm water waits for me.  
I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair.  
To my surprise, my mother kept a completely white suit for me, neither very elegant nor very rustic.  
Something that really suited me.  
Something I felt comfortable with.

At one o’clock, we head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death’s door.  
This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case.  
If not, you’ll be imprisoned.  
It’s too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant.   
The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days,   
especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it.   
But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there’s an air of grimness.  
The camera crews, perched   
like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.   
People file in silently and sign in.  
The reaping is a good opportunity for the Capitol to keep tabs on the population as well.  
Twelve- through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones toward the back.  
Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another’s hands.  
But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care,who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the two kids whose names will be drawn.  
Odds are given on their ages, whether they’re Seam or merchant, if they will break down and weep. Most refuse dealing with the racketeers but carefully, carefully.  
These same people tend to be   
informers, and who hasn’t broken the law? I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting, but the appetites of those in charge protect me.  
Not everyone can claim the same.

Anyway, Hyunjin and I agree that if we have to choose between dying of hunger and a bullet in the head, the bullet would be much quicker.  
The space gets tighter,more claustrophobic as people arrive.  
The square’s quite large, but not enough to hold District 12’s population of about eight thousand.  
Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it’s televised live by the state.   
I find myself standing in a clump of eighteens from the Seam.   
We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building.  
It holds three chairs, a podium, and two large glass balls, one for the boys and one for the girls.  
I stare at the paper slips in the girls’ ball. Twenty of them have Lee Felix written on them in careful handwriting. 

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read.  
It’s the same story every year.   
He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called North America. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained.  
The result was Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens.  
Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the districts against the Capitol.   
Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated.  
The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Hunger Games.   
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple.  
In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate.  
The twenty-four tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen waste land.  
Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death.  
The last tribute standing wins.   
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.   
Whatever words they use, the real message is clear.

“Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.” 

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others.  
The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.  
All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones the mayor.   
Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors.  
In seventyfour years, we have had exactly two.  
Only one is still alive.  
Christopher Bang,a young boy of twenty-three years old,blond hair and tired eyes, he won about seven years ago, too young to be a mentor in my opinion.  
When he came to say something I could not be too attentive, because I could only look at the feeling that radiated, pure fatigue and pain in his heart.  
The crowd responds with its token applause,but he’s absent and when Lee Minho tries to give him a big hug,he quickly manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of  
this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and   
he knows it.  
He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Lee Minho.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Lee Minho trots to the podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”  
Every year that he visits us for the Games his hair color changed.  
This time it showed dark hair, I could say black, and gently raised.

He goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows he’s just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not young boys who embarrass you in front of the entire nation.   
Through the crowd, I spot Hyunjin looking back at me with a ghost of a smile.  
As reapings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor.  
But suddenly I am thinking of Hyunjin and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys.  
And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away.

“But there are still thousands of   
slips,” I wish I could whisper to him.

It’s time for the drawing. Lee Minho says as she always   
does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with the girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me, that it’s not   
me, that it’s not me.   
Lee Minho crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice.  
It’s Kim Jiwoo, mostly known as Chuu in District 12.  
Peach colored hair was made hollow among the large crowd of people.  
I knew her...Her smile never faded from her lips and she had always been friendly with me,she was the same age as me.  
If I remember well...She barely had months to turn nineteen.

I felt bad for that girl, whom I was seeing for the first time with a serious expression.  
I could see his trembling legs climb to the podium while Christopher Bang gave him a quick glance.  
It was impossible to read what was in his eyes.

“Boys second!” And with that words I felt my heart pounding in my chest faster and faster.  
I looked at Hyunjin quickly among all the boys but he was still sadly watching Chuu on the podium.  
I looked at Lee Minho as he took the paper in the ball so patiently.  
The same environment surrounded us all and when I wanted to realize, everyone surrounded me were seeing me with painful eyes.

"Lee Felix!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> District 1- Kim Jongin (Kai) / ¿¿??
> 
> District 7- ¿¿?? / Bae Juhyun (Irene)
> 
> District 10- Moon Taeil / ¿¿??
> 
> District 11- Yang Jeongin / ¿¿??
> 
> District 12- Lee Felix / Kim Jiwoo (Chuu)

One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back.  
It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.   
That’s how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull.  
Someone is gripping my arm, a boy   
from the Seam, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.  
There must have been some mistake. This can’t be happening.  
I do not know why it impressed me.  
I had twenty papers with my name but still...

I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when someone gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair.  
And then I see Hyunjin, the blood   
drained from his face,hands clenched in fists at his sides, I already told him a thousand times that he did not even think to take my place if I was the one chosen.

“Well, bravo!” gushes Lee Minho.“That’s the spirit of the   
Games!”  
“What’s your name?” 

I swallow hard. “Lee Felix,” I say.   
“Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big   
round of applause to our newest tribute!” trills Lee Minho.   
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps.  
Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered my mother, who no one can help loving.  
So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they   
take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage.  
Silence.  
Which says we do not agree.  
We do not condone.  
All of this is wrong.   
Then something unexpected happens.  
At least, I don’t expect it because I don’t think of District 12 as a place that cares   
about me.  
But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take my place, and now it seems we have become someone precious.  
At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me and the girl next to me.  
It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals.  
It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love. 

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Christopher chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to congratulate me.

“Look at them. Look at them!” he hollers, throwing an arm around my shoulders and Chuu. He’s surprisingly strong. “I like him! The two of them!”  
“Lots of...“ He can’t think of the word for a while. “Spunk!” he says triumphantly. “More than you!” he releases me and starts for the front of the stage. “More than you!” he shouts, pointing directly into a camera.   
Is he addressing the audience or is he so weird he might actually be taunting the Capitol?

I have just enough time to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance.   
I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Hyunjin.  
For a moment, I yearn for something...the idea of us leaving the district...Making our way in the woods... But I know I was right about not running off.

The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody.  
I don’t mean we’re handcuffed or anything, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building.  
Maybe tributes have tried to escape in the past.  
I’ve never seen that happen though.  
Once inside, I’m conducted to a room and left alone. It’s the richest place I’ve ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch, I can’t help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour.  
The time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose.  
Crying is not an option.  
There will be more cameras at the train station.   
My mother come first.  
She sits beside me and wraps her arms around me.   
For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling her all the things she must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for her.

When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading I turn to my mother and grip her arm. “Listen to me. Are you listening to me?” She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what’s coming. “You can’t leave again,” I say.   
My mother’s eyes find the floor. “I know. I won’t. I couldn’t help what—”   
“Well, you have to help it this time. You can’t clock out again. There’s no me now to keep you alive. It doesn’t matter what happens. Whatever you see on   
the screen. You have to promise me you’ll fight through it!” My   
voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now. “I was ill. I could have treated myself if I’d had the medicine I have now.”   
That part about her being ill might be true.  
I’ve seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since.   
Perhaps it is a sickness, but it’s one we can’t afford.   
“Then take it. And take care of you!” I say. 

“But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast and brave. Maybe you can win.” 

I can’t win. My mother must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife.  
Oh, there’ll be people like me, too.  
People to weed out before the real fun begins. 

“Maybe,” I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry   
on if I’ve already given up myself. Besides, it isn’t in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable. “Then we’d be rich as Christopher Bang.”

“I don’t care if we’re rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won’t you? Really, really try?” asks my mother.

“Really, really try. I swear it,” I say. And I know, because of Hyunjin, I’ll have to.   
And then the Peacekeeper is at the door,signaling our time is up, and we’re all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I’m saying is “I love you. I love you mom.”

And they’re saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the   
door closes.  
I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.   
Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I’m surprised to see it’s Hyunjin.  
Finally,Hyunjin is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us,only a real friendship , but when he opens his arms I don’t hesitate to go into them.  
His body is familiar to me,the way it moves,the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt,but this is the first time I really feel it.

“Listen,” he says. “Getting a knife should be pretty easy, you’ve got to get your hands on one or two of them. That’s your best chance.” 

“Maybe I have not the chance to get one,” I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with. 

“Then make one,” says Hyunjin. “Even a weak knife is better than no knife at all.”   
It’s not that easy.

“I don’t even know if there’ll be wood,stone...” I say. Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes.  
I particularly hated that year.   
Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst. 

“There’s almost always some wood,” Hyunjin says. “Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that.” 

It’s true. We spent one Hunger Games watching the players freeze to death at night. You could hardly see them because they were just huddled in balls and had no wood for fires or torches or anything. It was considered very anti-climactic in the Capitol, all those quiet,bloodless deaths.  
Since then, there’s usually been wood to make fires. 

“Yes, there’s usually some,” I say. 

“Felix , it’s just hunting. You’re the best hunter I know,”   
says my best friend. 

“It’s not just hunting. They’re armed. They think,” I say.

 

“So do you. And you’ve had more practice. Real practice,”   
he says. “You know how to kill.” 

“Not people,” I say.

“How different can it be, really?” says Hyunjin grimly. 

The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it will be no different at all.   
The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Hyunjin asks for more time, but they’re taking him away and I start to panic.

“Don’t let her starve!” I cry out, clinging to his hand.

“I won’t! You know I won’t! Hyunjin, remember you are—” he   
says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I’ll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.  
I'm sure that he is going to say me that we are the best 'best friends'.  
I know it.  
It’s a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station.  
I’ve never been in a car before.  
Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.   
I’ve been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on my face.  
But I’ve had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of emotions and I do this now. I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that’s airing my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost bored and...Sad. 

Kim Jiwoo, on the other hand, has obviously been crying and interestingly enough does not seem to be trying to cover it up. I immediately wonder if this will be her strategy in the Games.  
To appear weak and frightened, to reassure the other tributes that she is no competition at all, and then come out fighting.

This worked very well for a boy,Kim Seungmin, from District 10 a few years back.  
He seemed like such a sniveling,cowardly fool that no one bothered about her until there were only a handful of contestants left.  
It turned out he could kill viciously.  
Pretty clever, the way he played it.  
But this seems an odd strategy for Chuu.

We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we’re allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us.  
The train begins to move at once.   
The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I’ve never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that’s mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train.  
It’s one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. Our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.   
In school, they tell us the Capitol was built in a place once called the Rockies. District 12 was in a region known is Appalachia.  
Even hundreds of years ago, they mined coal here.   
Which is why our miners have to dig so deep.   
Somehow it all comes back to coal at school. Besides basic reading and math most of our instruction is coal-related. Except for the weekly lecture on the history of Panem.  
It’s mostly a lot of blather about what we owe the Capitol.  
I know there must be more than they’re telling us, an actual account of   
what happened during the rebellion.  
But I don’t spend much time thinking about it.  
Whatever the truth is, I don’t see how it   
will help me get food on the table.   
The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building.  
We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water.  
We don’t have hot water at home, unless we boil it.   
There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Lee Minho tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal.  
Just be ready for supper in an hour.  
I peel off my white suit and take a hot shower.  
I’ve never had a shower before.  
It’s like being in a summer rain,only warmer.  
I dress in a dark green shirt and pants. 

Lee Minho comes to collect me for supper.  
I follow him through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls.  
There’s a table where all the dishes are highly breakable. Chuu sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.   
“Where’s Chan?” asks Lee Minho brightly.   
“Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap,”   
says the girl.   
“Well, it’s been an exhausting day,” says Lee Minho.  
I think he’s relieved by Christopher’s absence, and who can blame her?   
The supper comes in courses.  
A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Lee Minho keeps reminding us to save space because there’s more to come. But I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so   
good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.   
“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Minho as we’re finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion.”   
The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds.  
My mother taught me to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife.  
But I hate Lee Minho’s comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers.  
Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food down.  
I can see Chuu’s looking a little green, too.  
Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare.  
But if I can hold down Kim Shin Young’s concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree bark,a winter specialty, I’m determined to hang on to this.  
We go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem.  
They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since   
none of them have to attend reapings themselves.   
One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called,the volunteers stepping forward or, more often, not. We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition.  
A few stand out in my mind.

A dark-haired boy, of tall stature and a delayed build despite the fact that his body was probably worked from District 1.

A serious girl with pale skin and short stature from District 7.

A tall, sturdy boy with calm features from District 10.

And a boy of about sixteen from District 11.  
His hair was dark like his eyes, but the smile he showed was the brightest I could ever see.

Only when he   
mounts the stage and they ask for volunteers, all you can hear is the wind whistling through the decrepit buildings around him.  
There’s no one willing to take her place.   
Last of all, they show District 12.  
Chuu and me being called...  
The commentators are not sure what to say about the crowd’s refusal to applaud. The silent salute.  
One says that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming.  
My name is drawn, and I quietly takes my place.  
We shake hands.  
They cut to the anthem again, and the program ends.   
Lee Minho is disgruntled about the state he was shown to the others Districts.

“Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior.”   
Chuu unexpectedly laughs. “He was only cold,” says the girl.   
“He’s cold every year.”   
“Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little. Lee Minho makes it sound like Christopher Bang just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her.   
“Yes,” hisses Lee Minho. “How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in   
these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Chan can   
well be the difference between your life and your death!”   
Just then, Christopher staggers into the compartment. “I miss supper?” he says in a bored voice.

I smiled softly to hear that voice as 'Chan' sat at the table and finally saw how Lee Minho was getting up quickly jumping in those shoes of infinite quality disappearing through the corridors of that train disgusted with that mentor who already knew well of these years...


	3. Chapter 3

For a few moments, Chuu and I assimilated our mentor's scene putting butter on that toast.  
While quietly drinking a cup of coffee.

We exchange a glance. Obviously Chan isn’t much, but Lee Minho is right about one thing, once we’re in the arena he’s all we’ve got. As if by some unspoken agreement, Chuu and I cleared our throat.

"What do you want?" Christopher asks. It sounds tired.

He passes his own hand over his face and sighs.  
"My name is Christopher Bang, for you now it's Chan. I'm sorry guys, but this year it's your turn, it seems you have more life in your eyes than the previous ones, I'll make an effort for you."

"My name is Chuu, it's a pleasure to have a mentor like you." She says.

Possibly Chuu is trying to make a   
good impression on him, to be his favorite once the Games begin.  
However, I doubt that those things work with this blond guy.

"And this one here is Lee Felix, am I wrong?"

"No sir."

"You have already seen what people wait you at The Games."

"There's... A child, sir." My partner says then speaking with a worried voice.

I nodded a little and let out a slight sigh, lowering my gaze.  
No one take the place for that child...Yang Jeongin...But he remained smiling, ready to maintain the little honor of his district.  
District 11  
Of the weakest districts of Panem. 

"Surprise...You will have to fight with a boy of sixteen, at least you will not have to fight with one of twelve."

Then Christopher Bang seemed to disconnect for a moment.  
Their games...They were terrifying.  
There were a lot of young guys.  
Children.

"Please...Tell me who are the District 2 guys and their mentor."

I kept thinking...A boy with black hair,dark look, short stature but strong build.  
And a girl with a feline look, with a freckle on her cheek and dark skin.

"Ahn Hyejin and Seo Changbin" Then my peach-colored hair partner says thoughtful. "Mentor...Kim Woojin"

"Oh shit...I'd be careful with that fucking district, they'll go for you."

"Why?" I asked, surprised to see such a negative reaction.

"That bastard...Every time he comes out as a mentor he just thinks about finishing my kids."

And I knew I should not ask more about that.  
They must have had some past problem that made them get along so bad now.  
But for such a high district to look at us as prey... I was nervous about that.

\----------------

Imagining my home makes me ache with loneliness. This day has been endless. CThere are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again.  
I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol.  
The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts.  
It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels.  
This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today.  
Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol’s air forces.

Kim Jiwoo and I stand in silence as the train speeds along.  
The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens.  
I hate being encased in stone this way.  
It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.  
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment.  
We can’t help it.  
Both Chuu and I run to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the   
Capitol, the ruling city of Panem.  
The cameras haven’t lied about its grandeur.  
If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal.  
All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop   
in District 12.

The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city.  
I could not separate myself from that window and...Despite trying to maintain my serious image, I joined Chuu, waving incessantly through the window.  
That artificial landscape seemed to me... Interesting.  
And I had to make a way through the hearts of these people no matter what.  
We were a powerful duo after all and we had good visuals.

"He has freckles!"

I heard people scream there and I felt my ears burn as Chuu let out a small giggle.  
We both have a plan.  
We both are working hard to survive.  
That meant...That we were both working hard to kill each other if the time came...  
Could Hyunjin and I have been eating blackberries only this morning?  
It seems like a lifetime ago.   
Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare. Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in District 12, where I belong.   
Probably the drawers hold any number of nightgowns, but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in my underwear.  
The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth.   
If I’m going to cry, now is the time to do it.  
By morning, I’ll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face.   
But no tears come. I’m too tired or too numb to cry.  
The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.   
Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me.  
I hear Lee Minho’s voice, calling me to rise.

“Up, up, up! It’s going to be a big, big, big day!” I try and imagine,   
for a moment, what it must be like inside that boy's head.   
What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to him at night?  
I have no idea.   
I put the green outfit back on since it’s not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor.

We can’t be far from the Capitol now.  
And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway.  
I just hope I get one who doesn’t think nudity is the last word in fashion.   
As I enter the dining car, Lee Minho brushes by me with a cup of black coffee.  
He’s muttering obscenities under his breath.

Chan is back in the same place sitting, taking a cup of coffee and with big black circles under his eyes.  
Chuu holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed.

“Sit down! Sit down!” says Minho, waving me over.  
The moment I slide into my chair I’m served an enormous platter of food.  
Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes.  
A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled.  
The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week. There’s an elegant glass of orange juice.  
At least, I think it’s orange juice. I’ve only even tasted an orange once, at New Year’s when my father bought one as a special treat.  
A cup of coffee.  
My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me.  
A rich brown cup of something I’ve never seen.

“They call it hot chocolate,” says Chuu. “It’s good.”

I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I’ve drained my cup.  
Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount,being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff.  
One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.  
When my stomach feels like it’s about to split open, I lean back and take in my breakfast companions.  
Chuu is still eating, breaking off bits of roll and dipping them in hot chocolate.   
Chan hasn’t paid much attention to his platter, he is only paying attention to his cup of coffee.  
I don’t know Chan, but I’ve seen him often enough in the Hob, tossing handfuls of money on the counter of the woman who sells white liquor and coffee.

He was probably trying not to drink alcohol right now.  
I realize I detest Chan.  
No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance. It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it.  
But we rarely get sponsors and he’s a big part of the reason why.  
The rich people who back tributes, either because they’re betting on them or   
simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner, expect   
someone classier than Christopher to deal with.

“So, you’re supposed to give us advice,” I say to Chan. 

“Here’s some advice. Stay alive,” says Chan, and then bursts out laughing showing dimples that I never realized he had.

I exchange a look with Chuu before I remember I’m having nothing more to do with her.

“That’s very funny,” I say. Immediately I lashes out at the cup in Chan's hand.  
It shatters on the floor, sending the dark liquid running toward the back of the train. “Only not to us.”

Chan considers this a moment, then punches me in the jaw, knocking me from my chair.  
When he turns back to reach for the spirits, I saw Chuu driving her knife into the table between his hand and the coffee, barely missing his fingers.

She braces herself to deflect his hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead he sits back and squints at us.

“Well, what’s this?” says Chan. “Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?”

I rise from the floor and scoop up a handful of ice from under the fruit tureen. I starts to raise it to the red mark on my jaw.

“No,” says Haymitch, stopping me. “Let the bruise show.   
The audience will think you’ve mixed it up with another tribute before you’ve even made it to the arena.”

“That’s against the rules,” I say. 

“Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren’t caught, even better,” says Christopher.

He locks his eyes with us.

“Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?”

"I only know how to manage knives." I respond proudly.

"I am very skilled with combat face to face." I am so surprised now to hear my partner say those things.  
She seems...Weak.  
I can't judge people like this I guess.

I realize that if I want Chan's attention, this is my moment to make an impression. I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and   
then throw it into the wall across the room. I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.

“Stand over here. Both of you,” says Chan, nodding to the middle of the room.  
We obey and he circles us, prodding   
us like animals at times, checking our muscles, examining our faces.

“Well, you’re not entirely hopeless.  
Seem fit.  
And once the stylists get hold of you, you’ll be attractive enough.”

Chuu and I don’t question this.  
The Hunger Games aren’t a beauty contest, but the best-looking tributes always seem to pull more sponsors.

“All right, I’ll make a deal with you. You don’t interfere with my sleep time, and I’ll stay awake enough to help you,” says Chan. “But you have to do exactly what I say.”

It’s not much of a deal but still a giant step forward from ten minutes ago when we had no guide at all.

“Fine,” says Chuu.

“So help us,” I say. “When we get to the arena, what’s the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone —”

“One thing at a time. In a few minutes,we’ll be pulling into the station. You’ll be put in the hands of your stylists. You’re not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don’t resist,” says Chan.

“But —” I begin.

“No buts. Don’t resist,” says Chan. He takes another cup of coffee from the table and leaves the car.  
As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark.

There are still a few lights inside, but outside it’s as if night has fallen again.  
I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol.  
The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts.  
It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels.  
This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today.  
Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol’s air forces.

Kim Jiwoo and I stand in silence as the train speeds along.  
The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens.  
I hate being encased in stone this way.  
It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.  
The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the compartment.  
We can’t help it.  
Both Chuu and I run to the window to see what we’ve only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Panem.  
The cameras haven’t lied about its grandeur.  
If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal.  
All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop   
in District 12.

The people begin to point at us eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city.  
I could not separate myself from that window and...Despite trying to maintain my serious image, I joined Chuu, waving incessantly through the window.  
That artificial landscape seemed to me... Interesting.  
And I had to make a way through the hearts of these people no matter what.  
We were a powerful duo after all and we had good visuals.

"He has freckles!"

I heard people scream there and I felt my ears burn as Chuu let out a small giggle.  
We both have a plan.  
We both are working hard to survive.  
That meant...That we were both working hard to kill each other if the time came...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little more shorter.  
> but the story keeps going well!  
> please give your thoughts about this story ☆


	4. Chapter 4

I grit my teeth as Yeri, a girl with red short hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric  
from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. “Sorry!” she pipes in her typical Capitol accent. “You’re just so hairy!”  
Why do these people speak in such a high pitch? Why do their jaws barely open when they talk?  
Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they’re asking a question? Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter s...no wonder it’s impossible not to mimic them.  
But even so,it did not take me too long to get along with that girl and with each shout I released a good laugh after.

Yeri looked at me holding a giggle and looking at me with a funny glint in her eyes.  
“Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?” I get a grip on the edges of the table I’m seated on and nod.  
The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.  
I’ve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven’t met my stylist.  
Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Yeri and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems.  
This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair.  
My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the Muff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.  
I don’t like it.  
My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable.  
But I have kept my side of the bargain with Chan, and no objection has crossed my lips.

“You’re doing very well,” says some guy named Haechan.  
He runs one of his hands through his orange hair and applies a fresh  
coat of purple lipstick to his mouth. “If there’s one thing we can’t stand, it’s a whiner. Grease him down!”

Yeri and Amber, a girl with short hair like a man of a gold color and glitter strewn over her body and extravagant eyeshadow red as fire, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin.  
Then they pull me from the table,removing the thin robe I’ve been allowed to wear off and on.  
I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair.  
I was really embarrassed, I had never shown myself nude in front of any girl or boy, and even though these three seemed more than used to do this I just closed my eyes waiting the end.  
Maybe it was only me but I did not hate these people, they lived here oblivious to all the pain in the world, they didn't know how to live in any other way...  
The only one who should be hated was the president of Panem.  
Yang Minsuk, known as YG.

The three step back and admire their work.

“Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!” says Haechan, and they  
all laugh.  
I put my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am. Although, didn't I look like a human before?  
I let that comment pass.

“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “We don’t have much cause to look nice in District Twelve.”

This wins them over completely. “Of course, you don’t, you poor darling!” says Amber clasping her hands together in distress for me.  
“But don’t worry,” says Yeri. “By the time Johnny is through with you, you’re going to be absolutely gorgeous!”

“We promise! You know, now that we’ve gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you’re not horrible at all!” says Haechan encouragingly. "You have beautiful freckles darling. Let’s call Johnny!”

They dart out of the room. It’s hard to hate my prep team.  
They’re such total idiots.  
And yet, in an odd way, I know they’re sincerely trying to help me.  
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe.  
But this Johnny, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once.  
Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone.

The door opens and a young man who must be Johnny enters.  
I’m taken aback by how normal he looks. Most of the stylists they interview on television are so dyed, stenciled, and  
surgically altered they’re grotesque.  
But Johnny’s carefully combed back , smooth hair appears to be its natural shade of brown.  
He’s in a simple suit with a black shirt with golden details and pants.  
The only concession to self-alteration seems to be metallic gold eyeliner that has been applied with a light hand.  
It brings out the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.  
And, despite my disgust with the Capitol, I can’t help thinking how attractive it looks. 

“Hello,Felix. I’m Johnny, your stylist,” he says in a quiet voice somewhat lacking in the Capitol’s affectations.

“Hello,” I venture cautiously.

"Just give me a moment, all right?” he asks.  
He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the impulse to let my hands cover my private parts.

“Were you born with those freckles?”

“Yes,” I say.

“They are beautiful. In almost perfect balance with your profile.  
A pretty boy this time,” he says.

I had expected someone flamboyant,someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter.  
Johnny has met none of these expectations.

“You’re new, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,”

I say. Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes.  
Some have been around my whole life.

“Yes, this is my first year in the Games,” says Johnny.

“So they gave you District Twelve,” I say.

Newcomers generally end up with us, the least desirable district.

“I asked for District Twelve,” he says without further explanation. “Why don’t you put on your robe and we’ll have a  
chat.”

Pulling on my robe, I follow him through a door into a sitting room.  
Two red couches face off over a low table. Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city.  
I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast.  
Johnny invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes his place across  
from me.  
He presses a button on the side of the table.

The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch.  
Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.  
I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home.  
Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey.  
I’d need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange.  
Goat’s milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I’d have to get wild onions from  
the woods. I don’t recognize the grain, our own tessera ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three  
squirrels.  
As for the pudding, I can’t even guess what’s in it.  
Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.  
What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button?  
How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?  
What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and  
die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Johnny’s eyes trained on mine. “How despicable we must seem to you,” he says.  
Has he seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts?  
He’s right, though.  
The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

“No matter,” says Johnny. “So,Felix, about your costume for the opening ceremonies.  
My partner,Tiffany, is the stylist  
for your fellow tribute,Chuu.  
And our current thought is to dress you in complementary costumes,” says Johnny. “As you know, it’s customary to reflect the flavor of the district.”  
For the opening ceremonies, you’re supposed to wear something that suggests your district’s principal industry.  
District 11, agriculture. District 4, fishing. District 3, factories.  
This means that coming from District 12, Chuu and I will be in some kind of coal miner’s getup.  
Since the baggy miner’s jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps.  
One year, our tributes were stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust.  
It’s always dreadful and does nothing to  
win favor with the crowd.  
I prepare myself for the worst.

“So, I’ll be in a coal miner outfit?” I ask,hoping it won’t be indecent.

“Not exactly. You see, Tiffany and I think that coal miner thing’s very overdone.  
No one will remember you in that.  
And we both see it as our job to make the District Twelve tributes  
unforgettable,” says Johnny.

I’ll be naked for sure, I think.

“So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we’re going to focus on the minerals that your District extract from the mines,” says Johnny.

“And what do we do with minerals? We create beautiful things,like gold jewellery,” says Johnny. "I guess you're not used to wear golden accessories, am I wrong Felix?

He sees my expression and grins.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what may be the most sensational and striking costume of the opening ceremony.  
I wear an almost transparent half sleeve shirt,a style... Baroque, like the one I studied at school.  
A vest completely attached to my body accompanied me,completely golden,with details so minimal and small that it would take years to count them all.  
I kept my chest exposed and it was decorated with golden glitter, like my neck.

Yeri placed golden stars in each of my freckles and put black lipstick on my lips with more golden glitter that tickled my lips.  
The eyeshadow was the same style. Black and gold.  
When I saw me in the mirror,I really could not recognize me.  
I was...Impeccable. Dazzling. So beautiful...  
My hair was more blond than my natural color and so clean and bright that I couldn't help but run my hands over it, being scolded because it would remove the glitter from it.

Gold was our concept.

And I liked it.  
No.  
I loved it.

However, what defines our powerful duo is Chuu.  
A princess dress with a black cape, no, a cape made of black feathers with golden tips, as if they had been put in a paint pot.  
I was speechless to see it.  
His eye shadow and lipstick were the same as mine.  
When they put on me makeup I didn't know why men had to wear makeup too.  
That princess dress was carefully embroidered...But I did not even know what job it had behind it.  
His hair is a casual style and like my hair, this was decorated with glitter.

"You're going to shine more than District 1...Tiffany and I thought very well before we dared with the idea."

But I’m not convinced at all...Maybe the citizens don't support us for this reason...

“I want the audience to recognize you when you’re in the arena,” says Johnny dreamily. “Felix, the boy with stars on his face.”  
It crosses my mind that Johnny’s calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.  
The stylist of Chuu,Tiffany, and her team accompany her in,and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we’ll make.  
Except Johnny.  
He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.  
We’re whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable.

The opening ceremonies are about to start.  
Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses.  
Ours are coal black.  
The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins.  
Johnny and Tiffany direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions,the drape of the  
cape that Chuu wears,before moving off to consult with each other.

“What do you think?” I whisper to Chuu.

“About the...Excessive gold?”

“You are gorgeous,” I says showing my teeth when I smile.

“You too,” She says. “Where is Chan,anyway? Isn’t he supposed to protect us from every sort of thing?” says Chuu.

"We heard how he hates that mentor..." I spoke to see for a quick moment a boy who seemed to be of the same or almost the same age as Chan. "I'm sure he has not come because of him." I say.

And suddenly we’re both laughing. I guess we’re both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being the center of attention  
The opening music begins.  
It’s easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol.  
Massive doors slide open revealing the crowdlined streets.  
The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.

The tributes from District 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels.  
District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol.  
You can hear the roar of the crowd.  
They are always favorites.

District 2 gets into position to follow them.  
And I put all my attention then on that boy I saw on television.  
He remained serious and firm in that chariot.  
He have...Something.  
But I knew that I couldn't be fooled, the mentor of that dark boy had problems with our mentor and now we were rivals.

In no time at all,we are approaching the door and I can see that between the  
overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray.  
The tributes from District 11 are just rolling out when Johnny appears.  
Then he gently tucks a hand under my chin. “Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you!”

Johnny jumps off the chariot and has one last idea. He shouts something up at us, but the music drowns him out. He shouts again and gestures.

“What’s he saying?” I ask Chuu.

“I think he said for us to hold hands,” says Chuu. She grabs my right hand gently with a little smile in his left hand, and we look to Johnny for confirmation.  
He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that’s the last thing I see before we enter the city.  
The crowd’s initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of “District Twelve!” Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us.  
At first, I’m frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look.  
In the deepening twilight, the glitter illuminates our faces.  
We seem to be leaving a trail of glitter off the flowing cape that Chuu has.

Remember, heads high. Smiles. They’re going to love you!  
I hear Johnny’s voice in my head.  
I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand.  
As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd.  
The people of the Capitol are going nuts,  
showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program.  
The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can’t suppress my excitement.  
Johnny has given me a great advantage.  
No one will forget me.  
Not my look, not my name.  
Felix.  
The boy with stars on his face.

For the first time, I feel a flicker of hope rising up in me.  
Surely, there must be one sponsor willing to take me on!  
And with a little extra help, some food, the right weapon, why should I count myself out of the Games?

Someone throws me a yellow rose.  
I catch it, give it a delicate sniff, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the giver.  
A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.

“Felix! Felix!” I can hear my name being called from all sides.  
Everyone wants my kisses.  
I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but she regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” she says. “Please. I might fall out of this thing.”

“Okay,” I say. So I keep holding on, but I can’t help feeling strange about the way Johnny has linked us together.  
It’s not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.  
The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle.  
On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol.  
Our horses pull our chariot right up to President YG's mansion, and we come to a halt.  
The music ends with a flourish. 

The president,a small,thin man with black hair and serious look gives the official welcome from a balcony above us.  
It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech.  
But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime.  
When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the District 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we’re engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they  
babble out praise.  
As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I’ve suspected, we’ve literally outshone them all.  
The look on Seo Changbin's eyes gives me shivers...But then ny heart stop racing so fast when I connect my eyes with the boy of District 11.  
That smile...

Then Johnny and Tiffany are there,helping us down from the chariot.  
Tiffany helps Chuu with her cape.  
I realize I’m still glued to Chuu and force my stiff fingers to open.  
We both massage our hands.  
“Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there,” says Chuu.

“It didn’t show,” I tell her. “I’m sure no one noticed.”

“I’m sure they didn’t notice anything but you. You should wear glitter more often,” she says. “It suit you.” And then she gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness.  
I smile at her again, sincerely. "It suit you too as well...We...Make a good visual team."

A warning bell goes off in my head.  
Don’t be so stupid.  
Chuu is planning how to kill you, I remind myself.  
She is luring you in to make you easy prey.  
The more likable she is, the more deadly she is.  
But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss her cheek.  
Still feeling that dark look on me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you like the story don't forget to comment your thoughts about it!

**Author's Note:**

> i already regret doing this :(
> 
> if you enjoy the first chapter let me know it in the comments and if you had any ideas for the story just ask for my Twitter account to talk there


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